


Deoch dha na mairbh

by ThayerKerbasy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Destiel if you squint - Freeform, Episode: s11e23 Alpha and Omega, M/M, The Lazy Shag Pub, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 23:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19283047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThayerKerbasy/pseuds/ThayerKerbasy
Summary: Dean had gone off to suicide bomb Amara, leaving everyone else with nothing to do but drink.





	Deoch dha na mairbh

If someone had asked Crowley how he would have chosen to spend his time waiting for the end of the world, he certainly never would have answered, “Drinking barely-tolerable whisky in a deserted pub, with Castiel, Sam Winchester, my mother, and a dying god.” These days, he was more of a flirty cocktail sort of fellow than whatever bottom shelf sludge was in his glass, but the occasion seemed to call for something throat-burning. His mother was actually the only one drinking besides himself. That being said, the pub had been his idea in the first place, so he was in no position to complain.

Rummaging around behind the bar turned up little in the way of snacks, but there were plenty of peanuts in the shell, and cracking them open would give him something to do while waiting. No one else was really doing anything, and it was more than a little depressing. Pouring out a bowlful of peanuts, he resolutely refused to think about what Dean was probably doing at that moment.

Leaning against the bar, he assessed the room. There was no sense talking to Moose if he didn’t want to get his head bitten off before the world froze to death, and after she’d tried to Florence Nightingale the Almighty, Crowley had nothing to say to his mother. As for God Himself, well, there was no sense hastening the inevitable. A covert glance at Castiel showed him staring off into space, looking utterly dejected. Tormenting his favourite angel was always a good time, and it seemed Crowley wasn’t the only one in need of distraction.

Plastering on his best lazy smile, Crowley swirled his drink. “So, Cas, you’re literally older than dirt. Anything left on your bucket list?”

“Shut up, Crowley,” Cas absently replied, his words lacking their usual venom.

Encouraged, Crowley continued, “Personally, I’ve seized practically every opportunity that’s presented itself over the last several hundred years, but even so, I haven’t quite crossed off the entire list.” Pausing to heave a sigh, he theatrically slumped down onto his arms on the bar. “I suppose I thought you could relate.”

Brow furrowed, Cas actually looked in his direction, looking unwillingly intrigued. “Why?”

“You know why,” replied Crowley, propping himself up on one arm. “I know I’m not the only one in this room who had his sights set on a seemingly unattainable goal.” He took a sip of whisky, rolling the flavour around his mouth to eke out the best features of an inferior brand. “Just between us girls, have you ever made a move, or have you been pining in silence all these years?”

Cas’ expression hardened and he looked out the window. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course not. Denial to the end. I do wonder, though, if he might not have chosen to spend that summer debauching with me if he’d known you were an option.”

For just a moment, it looked like Cas was going to smite him. Eyes flashing grace blue, he stood up and almost took a step before slumping back, all the fire draining out of him. “You might be right. Not that it matters anymore.”

It shouldn’t have bothered him. He was a demon. Demons didn’t give a damn. Despite his best efforts, though, Crowley had never really been a natural demon. Evil took effort, and at the moment he only felt tired.

He took a peek around the room. Sam was tending to Chuck and not paying much attention to the rest of the room, and Chuck was busy trying not to go nuclear. Crowley’s mother was blatantly listening while pretending not to listen, but she hadn’t said anything and it wasn’t like it’d matter soon.

Lowering his voice to at least keep some things from Sam, Crowley opened peanuts as he spoke, counting on the noise to muffle his words. “We didn’t spend the __whole__ summer debauching. Honestly, that summer was him doing whatever he bloody well pleased, and I was mostly along for the ride. That isn’t to say we never knocked boots — I’d say the rumpy pumpy occupied an inordinate amount of our after hours — but it certainly wasn’t everything we did. One of the first things we did as demons on the town was Kansas City PrideFest. I don’t think either of us has ever been as colourful as we were then.” Indulging in the memory brought to mind the nearly naked gents who ended up pressed against them in the crowd. Both of them had been more than agreeable after the concert. “I suppose that weekend __did__ provide its fair share of athletic entertainment.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Crowley shrugged. “I have no idea. Perhaps because I’d rather spend my final hours reminiscing than wallowing in regret.”

Castiel’s response was typically minimal, as if lowered eyebrows and compressed lips constituted a reasonable answer. Whatever. Crowley couldn’t be bothered spending any portion of what could be his final hours on deciphering that. Sam wandered back to Castiel’s side, so Crowley left them to do whatever moping they were going to do.

Cracking open another peanut, Crowley discarded the shell and popped the nut into his mouth, more for something to do than out of any desire to eat. The taste brought him back to the summer of bar hopping, spending hours eating bar snacks, drinking cocktails, and watching Dean butcher song after song on the stage. That thought led to wonder why he’d never thought to ask if Dean wanted to go out for karaoke as a mortal human. Apparently reminiscing was irrevocably tied to regret.

He needed to get out of his own head. A snap of his fingers turned on the TV above the bar. Of course the bloody thing was already tuned to a news broadcast documenting their current dilemma. Changing the channel did nothing, as each and every channel showed some variation of the same. Scientists tried to solve a puzzle for which they lacked all the pieces and the inadequately informed newscasters suggested well-meaning but inadequate safety precautions. Everyone was going to die, but at least they’d do so while safely inside their homes.

He snapped his fingers and the screen went dark. “Boring.”

Rather than respond to Crowley, Cas looked past Sam to where God-as-Chuck sat rationing His strength, keeping Himself and the sun going as long as possible. Crowley had mixed feelings about learning that God was real and knew everything he’d ever done, and even knowing it would result in his own death, it was just a little bit satisfying to know that the one who had watched all his suffering and could have prevented it was dying painfully slow.

His expression unreadable, Cas said, “He looks horrible.”

Sam followed Castiel’s gaze, undoubtedly performing his own mental assessment. Sighing, he slouched a little lower. “I wish we could’ve seen this coming. I mean, I get that she’s pissed, but I don’t think any of us expected Amara to go this far. If I’d known that...”

He trailed off but Crowley could fill in the blanks. It would’ve been easier to simply stand back and leave the pair of deities to their confrontation without getting involved. Without the rest of them there poking at Amara like gnats, perhaps she might have merely imprisoned her brother or taken him elsewhere. Maybe Chuck would’ve gotten up the guts to kill Amara on his own if he didn’t have their help in the first place. There were so many what ifs, and besides wondering if there might’ve been a way to save their sun, they all boiled down to “what if Dean didn’t have to die?”

“If you’d known that, you’d be a better witch than any alive that I know of, dearie, and I should know. There’s nae a crystal ball that can see the future of the goddess of destruction.” At her end of the bar, Rowena raised her glass and said, “ _ _Slàinte.__ ” Without waiting for a response, she drained half the glass in one go.

“No sense wishing anyone good health now,” Crowley muttered in reply, but he drank anyway. Though it still tasted terrible, it burned going down, which almost made him feel alive.

Cas sighed and slumped into a chair. While they had their disagreements, that was one of his better ideas so Crowley claimed it as his own, walking around to the other side of the bar so he could sit on a bar stool like any other depressed bastard. After pouring himself a fresh measure of alcoholic swill, he resumed the vitally important task of shelling and eating peanuts. At least he’d die with a half decent memory in his head, even if it was tainted with regret.

He was sorting through empty shells looking for any he’d missed when it happened. One moment, Sam was bringing the Creator of All a glass of water and the next, he was looking frantically around the room, calling for a deity who had disappeared.

Beside him at the bar, Crowley’s mother let out a half-hearted sigh. “Well, I suppose that’s it then. She’s gone and got fed up with waiting for him to snuff it. I expect it won’t be long till the end now.”

Perhaps it was better this way. If Amara ate the universe, Crowley wouldn’t have to muster up the will to give a damn anymore. At least it was better than an ugly, depressing prolonged zombie apocalypse, or whatever else could happen after the sun died out. It was okay to lose when the victor was essentially the goddess of nothingness.

He permitted himself a moment to indulge in a spot of pride for the little girl he’d had a hand in raising. He really should have seen it sooner, that she wasn’t so much evil as she was nihilistic — there was that pesky regret again — but she certainly came out the victor. Funny, if there had been a point in betting, he would have put his money on Dean and he would have lost.

The glass before him remained untouched. They were all dead, and no amount of whisky could convince him otherwise anymore. The bottle of Margiekugel by his elbow wasn’t tempting in the slightest, but Dean also deserved a drink, even if he wasn’t going to get to enjoy it.

Everyone had grown quiet. It’d been quiet enough before, but with Chuck’s disappearance nobody wanted to break the silence. The rustle of fabric and scuff of boots behind him, therefore, couldn’t help but draw his attention. Turning around, he was never so disappointed to see the sun shining in the sky.

The world continued and so did he. God was dead, and so were Amara and Dean. It probably should have been cause for celebration.

It didn’t even occur to him to teleport outside. He walked, eyes fixed on the sun growing steadily brighter, a monument to the dead mourned only by the four of them.

The dead deserved words. “He did it.”

“He bloody did it,” his mother agreed beside him.

Cas didn’t turn around to ask, “And Dean?”

And Dean indeed. As if Dean hadn’t been Crowley’s first thought the whole bloody time.

Composing his face, he gave Sam and Cas a respectful nod. “My condolences on your loss, but since it appears we do have to deal with tomorrow after all, I must be off.”

Without waiting for a reaction, he snapped his fingers and teleported to a little pub in Suffolk where no one knew his name. Surrounded by strangers, at least he’d be able to pour one out in peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Yup, it's Coldest Hits time again. [This month](https://spncoldesthits.tumblr.com/post/185117050300/june-2019-prompt-marshmallow-emojis-posting-dates) we were challenged to write a story inspired by at least one of four emojis (flirty cocktail, crystal ball, biohazard, and rainbow pride flag). I chose to incorporate all of them, resulting in this. The title is Scots Gaelic and as far as google translate can be trusted, it means "drink to the dead."


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